The Melting Man
by Lapulta J.R.R. Cahill
Summary: Thirty-two-year-old Hamilton Holt has been, and is a truck driver for Power-Produce. He does his job, does it well, and is happy. But when he's sent to Africa for a truck-driving contest, his entire life changes as he becomes; The Melting Man.
1. Chapter 1

**I came up with this idea a while back - as usual. For some reason, I forgot about it, and then I was flipping through a list I had, of ideas, and decided right then and there that I was going to write it. I whipped up this chapter in about 30 minutes flat. Amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it- eh?**

**R, E, and R! (Read, Enjoy, and Review!)**

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><p><strong>The Melting Man<strong>

**~!~!~**

_Do you know, the Melting Man?_

_The Melting Man;_

_the Melting Man._

_Do you know, the Melting Man,_

_who drives from Borrow to Nome?_

* * *

><p><strong>Congratulations, <strong>[a line was placed where someone had written the word;] Hamilton Holt,

**You have been selected f-r our annual Toughest Truck Driver Competition. Your name was enter- in a drawing, and your selection was - **[a line was placed where someone had written the word;] The Sahara Desert**.**

**The competition begins on **[another line and another written word] May, 15**. Your assignment is to drive five loads of potatoes across the **Sahara Desert **on your latterly assigned dates with the quickest times. A- hotel and plane fees will b- paid for.**

**Your competition will be driving similar, harsh climates with measured, similar lengths. If you have any complains with this, please cal– 9—7~~89.**

**Another letter will be sent containing more information on this contest.**

**To exempt from th- competition, p-ease call: 1800-567–0—. Thank you.**

* * *

><p>Hamilton Holt stared in disbelief at the letter. All other mail had dropped, unheeded, to the ground, and was beginning to blow around the room along with a white blur of snowflakes. Groping behind him, Hamilton pulled out a chair and slumped down in it, oblivious to anything, and everything.<p>

Suddenly, he shot up, slamming the letter on the wooden table in disgust. "After _fifteen years_, they do _this_?" Hamilton blinked in surprise as he saw that a small snowdrift was forming on the corner of his couch and coffee table. He turned around, closed the door, and sat back in the chair to stare at the letter.

And of course, the most important part, the exempt phone number, was _watered out_. Groaning in frustration, Hamilton got up and began to gather the other mail from around the room. It too was partially watered out, but there hadn't been a big problem with that. Not until now.

Sitting down, Hamilton flipped through the other letters. "Bill, bill, bill, water, phone, electric... Yadda, yadda, yadda. Ten. All there." Whistling now, Hamilton reached out with his foot to the nearby kitchen cabinets and kicked one open. An iron pot tumbled out, spilling piles of paper on the slightly damp floor. Rolling his eyes, even though he knew he would never fix the problem, Hamilton scooped up the pot and slopped it on the table, dumping the newer bills into it. He would do them later. There was a bigger problem on hand.

Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, Hamilton prayed that the snowstorm wouldn't knock out reception, and pressed 5-Send. His boss picked up on the first ring, thankfully.

"_Yeah, yeah, yeah, what is it? I'm busy here. I can't be interrupted by the likes of-_"

"Griper, it's me."

The voice shut up quick. "Hammer_, it's you. Good. I've been aching to talk to someone who's not concerned about when their cabbage is going to arrive. What's the problem?_"

Hamilton glanced down at the letter in his hand. "It's a big one. Sure you want to listen?"

Griper was confident now - assured. Hamilton grinned slightly on the other end of the line. "_Put me up to it. It won't be as bad as that road spill up by Fairbanks._"

"A spill by Fairbanks? Haven't heard of that one."

"_Oh, it was just a load of fish. Middie said that he wasn't going to be able to look at another pike for _days_. Eh, you know the drill._"

"I still can't stand soybeans," Hamilton chuckled under his breath. "Anyway, Gripe, you need to take a look at this for me. I just got this letter in the mail and it says I was entered in this... Toughest Truck Driver Competition? Now there's _got_ to be a mistake. I didn't enter myself in anything, and I've been working for Power-Produce for fifteen years - going on sixteen! And you know me. I don't bother with anything outside of the truck stops. I didn't do this, and I want to know who did. Get to the bottom of it for me, will you?"

Dead silence on the other end of the line.

Hamilton shook his phone, begging the wireless to connect again. He wondered slightly, if the storm outside was getting worse. It was suppose to be the coming of spring. He'd have to re-tape the pipes if the weather kept this up.

"_Naw, Ham, come on. You're fooling yourself. You're the best truck driver up past Anchorage, and you know it. This'll be a piece of cake for you._"

Hamilton stared at his phone for a long time. "You signed me up for this stupid contest, didn't you, Griper."

"_If you win, the company pays you mucho-bucks. I'm talking about fifty-grand here, Hammer. This is big-time. And if you do win, you win for us. I'm talking like- us part of the company, really. This Alaska section can be _recognized_. You know what I'm talking about?_"

Hamilton felt like he wanted to crush his cell phone into minuscule pieces. "I know what you're talking about, and I don't like it."

"_Hammer, who drove all the way to Nome when the power lines were out? Hm? Come one, I know you know the answer._"

Hamilton debated pressing the 'end' key on his phone. He hesitated. "... I did."

"Of course_, oh, modest-one. And who was the first one when Millie's eight wheeler flipped with that load of tomatoes? Come on, spit it out, buddy._"

"Me... Oh, for crying out loud, Griper, just tell me the exempt number and get off the line!"

"_Exempt number? Oh, then that did work._"

"_Griper..._" Hamilton could feel a few ugly words on the tip of his tongue.

"_Freeze it, Hammy-boy. The mail-carrier did his job then. Good. Now, I'm not going to tell you the exempt number because I don't want to, and you're the best person for this job. All us states had to insert a person to do the competition, if that makes you feel any better._"

Hamilton lost his temper. "Why don't you sign _MILLIE-BOY_ up? I am delivering potatoes in the SAHARA DESERT! The _SAHARA_, Griper! I don't know if you ever studied Geography, but it's in AFRICA! _AFRICA_! I am DELIVERING _POTATOES IN AFRICA_! Do you even _know_ why I came to ALASKA to drive?"

Griper didn't even get a chance to respond.

"I _HATE_ THE HEAT! It drives me NUTS! I can't _THINK_ straight in that sweltering, stupid, YELLOW CLIMATE!"

"_Why yellow?_"

"Because it's HOT, you idiot!" Hamilton got a grip on himself slightly and wondered if he could be fired for calling his boss 'an idiot'. "BECAUSE THE SUN IS YELLOW! Why ELSE?"

"_I was just asking._"

"_Ah..._" Hamilton stood up and kicked the cabinet door that had held the pot with the bills, closed. It popped back open since he kicked it so hard. "_Ah... _Then that just makes everything PEACHY doesn't it? You can ask, and I'll give you answers, but you WON'T GIVE _ME _THE STUPID _EXEMPTION NUMBER_!"

"_Hamilton, your next letter is scheduled by the mail-carrier to arrive on the 5__h__. You leave on the 10__th__. You have five days to adjust yourself to the heat before you start the competition._"

"YOU KNOW WHAT ADJUSTING _I'M_ GOING TO DO? YOUR-"

There was a click to signal that the call was over.

Hamilton threw his phone into the cubbard with the bills, and locked it.

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><p><strong>Good so far? Great!<strong>

**Now here's the thing.**

**Chapter two is not written. I am not going to write chapter two if people don't like this story. If you like the plotline, and where I've directed this to go, then please review, and tell me. If you don't, and I have a limited number of people who comment, and said they don't like it/don't like where it's going - I'll cut it, and this is the end of; The Melting Man.**

**Question; How'd you like my little poem up there? Came up with it all by myself. *grins widely***


	2. Chapter 2

**You know, to be truthful - to whoever's reading this - this is the first multi-chapter story I've written that I actually feel like people will **_**enjoy**_** it. I wrote this chapter- and the first chapter, because I felt that you, as my reader, would enjoy it.**

**I hope that my story lives up to my own expectations, and satisfies yours.**

**Rage; I would count your review as 'two' if I didn't get five. *rolls eyes* But since I did get five, your review is now counted as one. *grins***

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><p><strong>Chapter Two;<strong>

_Yes, I know the Melting Man._

_The Melting Man;_

_The Melting Man._

_Yes, I know the Melting Man,_

_who drives in the desert now, they say._

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><p>Hamilton could barely breathe as he stepped off the plane. Ninety degree air ripped into his lungs so quickly it was almost painful. <em>This isn't air, <em>he scowled. _It's sand: sand masquerading as air._ His phone rang then, just as he was stepping onto the tarmac. Apparently Africa hadn't ever heard of airport security or actual _airports_. Flipping open his phone, Hamilton tried to drown out the continuous rumble of people behind him. "Hello?"

_"It's me, you know, Rea. I wanted to know if you'd landed yet."_

Hamilton rolled his eyes. Sisters really _were_ such a pain. "Just did. Why do you ask?"

_"I wanted you to get a picture of a camel for me."_

Hamilton blinked. That was a new one. "A what?"

_"A picture of a camel. You know, one hump, looks weird, doesn't drink. Ring a bell?"_

"I know what a camel looks like, dummy, but why do you want me to take a picture of one? Go download a picture off the internet it's not that hard. Go to google and type in 'camel'."

_"No, I don't want a picture like that,"_ Reagan was exasperated now. _"I want a real picture. Like- from you. From someone who's been there."_

Hamilton groaned. "Will you leave me alone?"

_"Yes."_

"Fine. I'll find a camel and take a picture of one for you. See you soon, Rea."

_"Bye, and thanks, Ham!"_

Hamilton snapped his phone shut and gathered his luggage from the conveyer belt. At least one thing was good in Africa. They were quick about the luggage. Looking around, Hamilton sighed as he saw around him for the first time.

It wasn't because it was dirty or unsatisfactory, in fact it was the opposite - cleaner from the Anchorage airport where he'd left. But there was almost nobody there except the people who worked at the desk, and his fellow co-flyers. _What now?_ Picking up his suitcase in one hand, Hamilton made his way to where all the other people seemed to be gathered. There was a sign above all their heads reading some foreign, Arabic word. _It better mean taxi._

Hamilton groaned again.

* * *

><p><em>"...Tripoli to Timbuktu."<em>

"Tripoli to Timbuktu," Crossing his legs, Hamilton wished that his hotel room had bigger chairs. "Tripoli to Timbuktu. You've got to be kidding me! Three times across the Sahara Desert? No way! I want the exempt line. Now, Griper."

_"You're already there. What am I going to do, Hammer? Tell them that you broke a leg? They're not going to listen to me. And what would you like more? Carting tomatoes 15 times across Death Valley?"_

"Alright, now you look here, Gerald Irimape. You got me into this mess - if I want out, I want out. I don't care what other people have to do. I care about _myself_!"

_"I have bosses, too, Hamilton Holt. And I'm yours. I don't like to push it, but you are _doing_ this."_

"And I can quit," Hamilton shot back.

_"Do this," _Griper pleaded. _"Just this once, and I won't force you to do it again."_

"Promise?" Hamilton rolled his eyes. Like a promise would ever hold a truck driver.

_"Cross my heart and hope to die."_

Hamilton hung up. "On your life," he muttered afterward.

* * *

><p>The marketplace was frighteningly busy.<p>

Ducking around buckets of honey, Hamilton nearly ran into a pile of guavas. A market-lady shook her fist and cursed at him in Arabic. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, backing away. It was interesting though - the market. Colors were everywhere, flashing in the desert sun and reflecting off all the tall buildings; whitewashed so white it hurt his eyes to look at them. The streets were winding and narrow, dashing up one hill, only to leisurely worm their way down again. It was a wonder the market was even able to function at all.

Hamilton pushed his way towards what looked to be a tourist paraphernalia shop. Maybe they had some sort of clothing that would be less sweltering than the shorts and light teeshirt he was already wearing.

When he walked inside, a blast of cooler - slightly cooler - air hit him, filled with a sickly sweet scent of burning incense. Hamilton made his way to the back of the shop where the other clothes were, ignoring eyes turned on him. This was mainly a store for nick-knacks, obviously. Out of the corner of his eyes, Hamilton could see numerous 'Lybia's Hot!' teeshirts with pictures of super-model tourists posing with sunglasses on them. Little spoons were also there - inscribed with Libyan sayings and Arabic characters.

A wall halfway covered with bundles of incense was on his right. The other half was filled with handmade candles. The candles attracted Hamilton's attention. He turned slightly from the teeshirts and wandered toward the counter where chunks of wax were being melted down. A man in a turban with a long, greying beard - dipping two strings into two pots of wax looked up and grinned a rather black-toothed grin. He let out a string of Arabic words.

Hamilton glanced at the candles, then looked at the man. "Uh... I- I speak... English."

"Ah.- In-glish! Ah- I see!"

"Yes, yes-" Hamilton felt rather stupid. He fidgeted and looked at the candles again. "I- I was... looking at-" He pointed at the candles so the man wouldn't get confused. "-looking at the candles. I was... curious."

"Yes- yes- you see how we make them? See- the wax we buy. It comes from wax shrub far- far... down South. Then- then the incense, we... See? We boil- boil incense sticks with wax- it- it that smell. It strong?"

That was a question, and Hamilton guessed that was the smell he was smelling. "Yeah, I can smell it."

"Now- now I dip- dip the string into wax and incense. You dip many times, see?" The man dipped the strings again to prove his point.

"I see," Hamilton nodded. "Yeah. So how many times do you do that? I mean, how many times does it take to form- a real candle- I guess."

"Ah..." The man nodded wisely was if he could truly understand every word Hamilton was saying. "Ah, the candles? Many times. See? You dip and let dry in- in air. Air hardens wax. Once wax is slightly hard, you dip again. You dip until thick- thickness you want."

"So what do you do when you're done?" Hamilton glanced behind the man at a rack of candles. They looked like multiple strings, hanging over a stick with green or reddish buildup on the ends.

"Ah- you cut!" The man made snipping motions with his index and middle finger as if imitating scissors. He turned around and hung up the strings he had been dipping along the rack with the other many drying candles. "Here. Dry candles- look." Hamilton twisted his head to get a better view, and not scorch his head over the wax in the boiling kettle. The man lifted the first string on the rack. The wax looked dry, not the drippy-wet-dry the others still held. "You take nearly-dry candles. Lay them out."

The man laid the two candles out on the counter. "Then rall them."

"Roll them?"

"Yes- yes that it. Roll- roll them." The man gently began to roll the candles gently along the hard counter. Hamilton could see any lumps that were on the wax, beginning to fade away, molding into one single candle stick. "Now- back," Hamilton looked up and blinked. The man was shooing him away. He took a step back. The man nodded happily. "Watch."

Carefully lining the candles up, the man took a knife from below the counter, ran it over the candles once, to confirm where he was going to cut them, then ran the knife over the candles and cut through the wax and string with one slice. The man frowned and slid his finger carefully over the blade of the knife. "It is dull," he nodded, and then put it back under the counter.

Hamilton blinked. The candles no longer looked like random stubs on strings. They were long thin, _candle_-like rolls of wax, connected at the top with a common string. "Now, you keep string," The man's voice jerked Hamilton out of his thoughts. "You do two like this- hang their strings both to- to... sell. You see?"

"I see, thanks."

"Ah, you like try?"

It was an opportunity Hamilton couldn't resist. Walking around the counter, he took the top of the string the man was holding and dipped it cautiously into the slowly simmering red wax. Pulling it up, Hamilton could make out a thick red covering of wax on the strings. The man grinned his blackish grin. "Good- good! Very good! Now... dip- dip again."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hamilton could make out the man reaching for something behind the simmering kettle. He dipped the strings again. The something was hard to get obviously, since the man was leaning perilously over the counter, and dangerously close to the flames that were keeping the kettle hot. Hamilton dipped the strings a third time. And then with one, desperate stretch, Hamilton could see the man reach for whatever he was grabbing for, and come too close to the simmering pot.

Hamilton lunged backward, but not fast enough. The kettle tipped forward, spilling wax all down his shorts and the leg below.

For a fraction of an instant, Hamilton could feel the searing pain as wax leaked, dried, and hardened. And the pain was gone, and so was the wax on his legs.

"This!" The man gasped, jerking Hamilton back into reality. "That this should happen in my shop!" Dropping the candles-in-the-making, Hamilton focused on trying to keep his balance as the man literally pushed him from behind the counter and into the clothing section of the small, marketplace shop. "In Abu-Havaum's shop! My tourist shop!"

"No, no," Hamilton struggled for words. "I... I- you see, wait, you don't understand! I'm fine, really- really Abu- I'm fine. Trust me."

Abu-Havaum was far too engrossed to notice his pleas.

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><p>Hamilton left the shop an hour later, confused, but half-laughing at his own confusion. He had four strings of honey-flower scented candles to send home to Mary-Todd - whether she'd like them or not, and was also wearing a new pair of shorts and shirt. The shorts and shirt had come at no cost - courtesy of Abu - in apology for all inconvenience. His old clothes were wound up in a bundle, and lodged tightly in the crook of his arm.<p>

Smiling, Hamilton wound through the still-busy streets. Veiled, and un-veiled women glided by beside him. They knew how to get around in this place - go with the crowd. Relaxing, Hamilton let the crowd sweep him along till the market streets ended, and he was able to make his way back to his hotel.

The doorman greeted him courteously. Perhaps it was because of his height. Hamilton nodded curtly as he passed. He was use to it. Height was an instant intimidation factor, and looking like you could knock two heads together and spit on the remains didn't help either. Getting onto the elevator, Hamilton pressed the 4 button, and then paused. He was no great estimator, but his head was about six inches from the top of the elevator door. It hadn't been right there when he'd left, had it?

Hamilton raised an eyebrow curiously at the door as it shut. This heat was a brain-addler.

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><p><strong>Storyline picking up?<strong>

**Good. *rubs hands together with eager anticipation* I wanted to mention as well though, that this story has not been beta-ed. All mistakes have been done by me, and obviously have not been caught by me.**

**I want another five reviews before I update!**

**Question; Do you like how I'm doing the story so far? A dumb question, since we're only like- two chapters into it, but I want to know. Are you enjoying it so far?**


	3. Chapter 3

**You all liked the market place scene. O-**_**kay**_**... Don't know why, but okay.**

**- Sunshine; No, your review doesn't count as two. A threat is counted as two, like Rage's threat. Rage's threat was very effective... XP**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three;<strong>

**~!~!~**

_Do you know, that wax can melt?_

_That wax can melt;_

_That wax can melt._

_Do you know that wax can melt;_

_in sweat - not drops, it's said._

_~!~!~_

Hamilton stared in disgust at the 'truck's' dashboard. It was five days later - time to start, supposably.

"_Alright!_" The man down below was screaming his lungs out, but Hamilton still had to strain his ears to hear him. "_Start whenever you're ready! I've got my hand on the clock!_"

Hamilton had to withhold a snicker. _Now, what if I told you I really _wasn't_ ready? What if I told you that I wasn't _going_ to be ready until I'm back in Alaska, got a truck that isn't a piece of junk, and can go faster than seventy, and actually have something with a _stereo_? What about_ that_ then?_ But he started the truck's engine. It sputtered, coughed a few times, and settled into a steady monotone voice. Hamilton rolled his eyes. Typical harsh-weather truck.

"_Drive!_"

Hamilton put his foot to the pedal. The truck gave another sputter, a putt, and then began to crawl forward. Groaning, he leaned back in the driver's seat, floored the gas pedal - not that the truck sped up any - and crossed his left foot on the steering wheel. Don't stop driving until you reach the oasis-checkpoint? This was going to be a piece of cake.

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><p>Or maybe not.<p>

Hamilton breathed in and out, consciously and deeply for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. Sand was everywhere. Dunes were everywhere. Rocks were everywhere. _Heat_- heat was everywhere. Shaking his head slightly, to clear it, Hamilton focused on the road. Wavy lines drifted everywhere one turned beyond twenty feet. The road looked like a series of roller coaster bumps.

And he couldn't _think_.

Grasping the steering wheel with both hands, Hamilton took another deep breath and let it out. Nothing helped. Tiny, fine, particles of sand dug into the corner of his mouth, face, eyes; eyelids, and nose, and wouldn't let go for the world. There _was_ nothing to focus on. If there was, it wouldn't be that bad, but the road stretched on in a flat, mirage-riddled line as far as mirages would let the eye see. Sand was the only other thing.

How could people _live_ here?

Grabbing his teeshirt from the empty seat beside him, Hamilton mopped sweat from his face. He had five, one-liter water bottles in back, but the first one was almost gone, and he'd been driving for only an hour and a half. Leaning back, Hamilton closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was in Alaska again, where it'd probably be snowing.

This was torture. _Real_ torture.

For a second, Hamilton was mildly grateful that Griper had chosen him for the job. Millie - or Middie, either one, would have passed out at the wheel after the first hour. _But I just couldn't get the stupid exempt line._ Frowning, Hamilton focused on the road.

* * *

><p>A checkpoint was never more welcome for any contestant, anywhere.<p>

Hamilton could see the leering eyes of the desert men as he crawled - quite sheepishly - down from the truck. They had made bets to see how he'd take the first day. Only one guy was paying up; apparently everybody else had bet against him.

Hamilton could have clobbered them all. As it was, he stalked through the group, swearing under his breath about how commercialized people were these days. The men stared at him, muttering under _their_ breath about how rude it was for those stinking Americans to take their shirts off in public.

Once inside, Hamilton dropped into a chair and called for a glass of water. It came with no ice. _No ice._ Deciding against drinking it, Hamilton went straight to his room. Room five, Griper had said. Hamilton opened the door to the room, and then stopped dead.

He was _shorter_.

Backing up, Hamilton measured himself against the door. He had heard that most of the doors in rural areas were made by hand, but this was ridiculous.

Six inches to the door one day, and then an entire _foot_ the other?

Standing against the door frame, Hamilton marked where his head was at, and then measured up with the length of his palms. Three of those. And if each palm length was four inches... that was a foot. _One foot_. But that made no sense!

"Do you have problem?"

Hamilton spun around to see the truck stop keeper staring confusedly at him. He quickly shook his head, glanced at the doorframe for a moment, then shook his head again. "No- no, I'm good. Just- I was thinking there for a minute."

"Good. You take long rest," The man bowed his head slightly out of courtesy or respect, Hamilton couldn't tell, and then nodded. "It 116 degrees tomorrow - Far-en-heit. You need lot rest."

_116 degrees._ Hamilton shut the door. He needed the exemption line. This was ridiculous.

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><p><strong>Quite honestly, I've been in 120 degrees, Farenheit, so Hamilton doesn't even have it that bad. For some reason, I like to boast about that. My cousin was showing off that he 'wasn't cold' in the Arizona winter, so now I've got to get him out some time and boast about how I'm 'not hot' in the Arizona heat. Haha. I GET THE LAST LAUGH! - if I can do it. O.o<strong>

**This is a minor filler chapter, but also rather important...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four;**

**-=-(*)-=-**

_Yes, I know that wax can melt._

_That wax can melt;_

_That wax can melt._

_Yes, I know that wax can melt,_

_and water will not help._

**-=-(*)-=-**

By the time he'd reached Timbuktu once - Hamilton was convinced that it was the end of the world - the doors had either grown, or he'd shrunk so there were two feet difference. Something was seriously wrong, or the people here were seriously tall. And that wasn't so; Hamilton - even with 'losing' a foot and a half, still towered over them. But now, he had an appointment with Griper.

Hamilton could feel his eyes practically melting in his head as he slimed down onto the floor and laid there over the feeble air conditioning; the floor was cooler than his bed. He reached for his shorts about six inches away from him and dragged them on halfway; it was too much effort to zip them up; and then used his arms to drag himself around on the floor till he found the largest shirt and weasled it over his head.

He was so sad the world was mourning for him by heating up a little more... Hamilton rolled over on his back and used the caterpillar-move to inch up to the nearest air conditioning. He laid directly over it.

"I didn't think you'd take it _this_ bad."

Hamilton opened one eye and used he rest of his remaining energy to glare at Griper. His throat was too dry to speak, so he croaked. "Get me out of here."

Griper looked legitimately apologetic. "I can't."

"Damn, you can't. I said: get me out of here."

Griper sat on the edge of the one-sheet bed and shrugged helplessly down at him. "That's the contest. You know that at least five people are up there freezing their butts off in Canada and AK, right now, right?"

Hamilton felt like five Z batteries had been plugged into him. He shoved his hands behind him till he was in a reasonable sitting position. "You mean that those people are there on _MY_ roads? On _MY_ routes?"

Griper leaned back. "Relax, dude. They're not yours-"

"THE _HELL THEY AREN'T_! I WANT MY _COUNTRY_ BACK! I WANT MY _STATE_! I WANT MY NICE, _BIG_ DIESEL TRUCK THAT DOESN'T SQUEAK WHEN YOU CHANGES ITS GEARS-"

"Drink some water," the boss offered. "You sound like a frog in a drought."

Hamilton shoved the hand away. "I WANT TO LEAVE THIS _STINKING_ COUNTRY WHERE YOU CAN'T FIND A STINKING BREATH OF STINKING _COOL AIR_!"

"If you smelled your fart, it might be cooler," Griper offered again. "Listen, Hamilton. You're starting back today. I'm counting on this; you can do it. I know you. I know you can."

Hamilton managed to stagger to his feet. He nearly fell over into Griper as he curled up his fist. "Now, listen here," he managed in a hoarse whisper. "I've got five reasons why you ought to get out of this room this minute, and get me out of this country before tonight. Listen." Hamilton unfurled the fist and showed five fingers. "One... Two... Three... Four... Five. Now get. Me. Out. Of. Here."

Griper said nothing, but just shook his head and hurried away.

* * *

><p>Hamilton stared at the phone in his hand, debating extensively before he made his decision and called the number. "Dad?"<p>

_"What?"_

Oh, eating. Hamilton winced. "I'm- I'm kinda in a bind, Dad."

_"Phum?"_

"It's on my route." Hamilton rubbed his temples, closing his eyes and letting the truck drive itself on the straight stretch of road. "Well, not my route. Dammit, my route's in Alaska. I'm in Africa, basically. I need help. Something's wrong. I'm drinking water and everything-"

_"Fwawfing ta refuwar worfout?"_

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Dad?"

Eisenhower swallowed on the other end of the line. _"Doing the workout I gave you?"_

"Heh." There was a rather guilty smile. "Dad, if you saw me right now, you wouldn't even give me fifty pushups."

_"HA."_ Eisenhower roared at the end of a line. _"A Holt? Weak?"_

"In the _sun_," Hamilton emphsised quickly. "I train all the time in AK."

_"Why not now?"_

"I can't do a pushup." Hamilton wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "I can't even walk. This heat's killing me. And water doesn't help."

There was a long pause. _"I'll come."_ Eisenhower suddenly snapped. _"Where are you?"_

Hamilton fidgeted. "You don't have to do that, Dad, really. I was just hoping you'd have some advice or something..."

_"Where are you?"_

"No, I'm serious, Dad. You don't have to-"

_"Where. Are. You."_

"I'll be in Tripoli tomorrow."

_"Deal."_

Hamilton opened his mouth to reply and found that the line was already dead.

* * *

><p><strong>THE APOCALYPSE IS HAPPENING! LAPULTA HAS GOTTEN OFF HER LAZY BUTT AND WITH THE HELP OF A FEW EPIPHANIES, HAS MANAGED TO CONTINUE A LONG-FORGOTTEN STORY.<strong>

**She also apologizes for the shortness of this chapter; she has rather interesting/decent ideas set for the next chapter. She also will not bother all the readers in reviewing, although she would like reviews; she knows she doesn't deserve them after this terrible break. She is also aware of the terribleness of this chapter. She think she will eventually edit it - if she has more epiphanies.**

**Lapulta has noticed that all her sentences before were continued with 'also'. She has a mind to edit it, but is too lazy to.**

**As a notice, she is working on Puke. She has epiphanies for that also.**

**~L**


End file.
